


Circle me (If my heart was a home)

by kat_fanfic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Misappropriation of Shampoo, Pre-Slash, Strawberries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat_fanfic/pseuds/kat_fanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the little things that tip Stiles off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circle me (If my heart was a home)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for another quick beta by tmzcori and mamoru, my personal cheerleaders and packmates! <3

It's the little things that tip Stiles off. Like when he grabs his Shampoo bottle in the shower and it's already half empty.  
  
He stands there, bottle in hand, and lets the hot water flow over him without really noticing it. When he opens the bottle to check what the weight has indicated, the smell hits him. It's flowery and spicy, almost too girly and totally inappropriate for his short-cropped hair.  
  
Of course he suspects his Dad, but earns only a raised eyebrow for his accusation. In hindsight, there are about a million things John Stilinski would rather do, including chopping of his little toe, than use this kind of Shampoo.  
  
There are other things as well, things that are too random to be connected right away. Like the missing key, or that their washer sometimes smells like it's just been used when Stiles opens it.  
  
The vanishing fruit is less of a mystery, even though Stiles is amused by his Dad's vehement denial. Instead of commenting on his positive influence, he just buys more, different kinds, and grins when the pears go untouched. He never took his Dad for a strawberry kind of guy, though.  
  
The toothbrush could have clued Stiles in a lot sooner, but by then he is knee-deep in wolf crap and has to worry about matters of life and death on a daily basis, so he just stares at it dumbly. It's sitting on the edge of the sink, looking totally unfamiliar and yet strangely like it has always been there.  
  
He goes to bed without touching it, planning to dispose of it later, but when he climbs out of bed the next morning, it's gone. He briefly considers checking himself into the psychiatric ward and then forgets about the whole thing.  
  
The blood-stains on the porch are a lot harder to ignore. Stiles stares at them for a long time, terrified out of his mind.  
  
He storms into the house at a run as soon as he can move, yelling for his Dad at the top of his lungs. It takes ten heart-stopping seconds for him to respond. Stiles sags in relief when he steps out of the bathroom clad in only a towel, dripping wet and completely unharmed.  
  
He doesn’t answer his Dad’s shocked questions, just grabs him up in a big hug. His front is soaked instantly but Stiles couldn’t care less. He holds on, listens to his Dad’s slightly elevated heartbeat and just breathes, willing the panic to recede.  
  
Later, they clean up the blood, his Dad grumbling all the while about the damn neighborhood cat and her bloodthirsty ways. It’s as good an explanation as any, but somehow Stiles is not convinced. There is something he’s missing, something very obvious, but he hasn’t slept in two days and it just won’t come to him.  
  
Despite everything that’s going on, the feeling doesn’t go away. There is hardly any time for him to catch a breath, but he knows that there is more to the stray sock he finds in the hallway or the meticulous folding of their towels.  
  
Despite his vague suspicions, he so doesn’t expect Derek to be sitting on his bed when he comes home after practice. He meeps and throws the Lacrosse stick at him out of reflex.  
  
Derek catches it neatly. “You really should work on your self-defense.”  
  
“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have to defend myself at all,” Stiles sputters.  
  
The look Derek shoots him is long-suffering. “You need to keep your priorities straight.”  
  
Something in Stiles snaps. He dumps his bag to the ground in quick, jerky movements. “Do you really think,” he says, seething, “that _surviving_ this whole mess is _not_ my top fucking priority right now?”  
  
“You’re not exactly doing a great job of it,” Derek comments.  
  
“Says the man with the barely healed bullet wound in his arm,” Stiles snaps back and it's when Derek leans closer to sneer right in his face that Stiles finally connects the dots.  
  
"Oh my god," he gasps. "You totally smell like Herbal Essences!"  
  
For once, there are too many emotions flickering over Derek's face rather than too little. "You bought it," he finally says, slowly, with the air of someone walking a minefield.  
  
"Ha!" Stiles crows. "So you admit it!"  
  
A frown crinkles Derek's forehead. "Admit what?"  
  
Stiles snorts. "Oh, don't play coy with me now, Mr. Creepy-Wolf. You are breaking into our home and eating our food and you use my Shampoo, and who does that, huh?"  
  
Derek looks at him like he's just sprouted a second head. Entirely unsurprisingly, he doesn't look guilty at all. Instead, there is a surprised quirk to his raised eyebrow.  
  
The longer Stiles stares at him accusingly though, the more Derek's eyebrow-expression changes to one of frustrated consternation. "You didn't know."  
  
"Of course I didn't know!" Stiles spits out before he can assimilate what Derek's words implicate. It's only when Derek's face closes off that he realizes his mistake.  
  
"Wait," he says to Derek's back. He’s half-convinced that Derek will leave anyway, but he stops short. His head is angled back, the only inclination that he’s willing to listen. “ _You_ didn’t know that _I_ didn’t know. So you thought it was okay for you to squat in my home and play house when nobody’s around?”  
  
Derek’s back is one line of tension, he almost vibrates with it, and it reminds Stiles of the runaway dog Scott once saved out of a dumpster. They were all set on feeding it and finding it a new home, but as soon as it was free, the skinny puppy had taken off. He is sure that Derek is feeling cornered and is ready to bolt, and for some reason Stiles wants to keep that from happening.  
  
“You gave me a key,” Derek finally says, almost too low to hear.  
  
“Actually, it was a spare key that I left on my desk,” Stiles quips, already moving. Miraculously, he manages to get between Derek and the window quickly enough. At first glance, Derek’s face is as expressionless as ever. It’s only the bitter twist around his eyes that gives him away.  
  
“I won’t bother you again,” Derek says and if Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d think he sounds almost sad. Maybe he doesn’t know better though, maybe he just never bothered to listen closely enough and it hits him in the gut like a punch. The fear he felt when he thought his Dad had been hurt, the constant nagging ache of loss that gnaws at his insides trigger the realization that whatever crap he’s been through, there is at least one person in this town that can relate to it all.  
  
“Don’t.” He says through the lump in his throat, thinking of abandoned houses and ashes and loneliness. It’s not enough, could be interpreted in ways he doesn’t want them to but for once his runaway mouth deserts him.  
  
Derek looks at him for a long time and finally some of the ice in his eyes melts away. He gives a nod and moves his head in a I’ll-go-now-but-will-be-back-later-and-there-better-be-Brownies-in-the-kitchen gesture.  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes but steps aside. He doesn’t stay to watch Derek climb out the window like the Stalker-Wolf he is, planning to grab a quick shower and then go grocery shopping because they’re out of chocolate drops.  
  
“Stiles.”  
  
He turns back around, bracing himself because there is the slightest hint of amusement in Derek’s voice.  
  
“Herbal Essences?”  
  
Stiles lets out an explosive breath. Of course. “It’s, um. It’s a Mum thing?” He murmurs, half-expecting to be mocked.  
  
Derek inclines his head, looking thoughtful. “Milk  & Honey,” he finally says and is gone before Stiles can think of a reply.  
  
At the grocery store, he lingers in one isle. He picks up something, puts it back down again, then shakes his head and buys more strawberries. In the end, there is a bottle of Milk & Honey Shampoo in his cart, along with a set of towels that have little moons on them.  
  
Stiles tries very hard not to think about what it all means as he copies his Dad’s duty roster and sticks a note to it that says _Don’t leave bloodstains anywhere, you freak._  
  
When he comes home from school the next day, the plate of fresh Brownies he left on top of the washer is gone. There’s a tiny piece of paper with one word written on it, in an unfamiliar scrawl.  
  
 _Cinnamon_ Stiles reads, thinking that it sounds awfully like ‘thank you’.

  



End file.
